


if we could see through walls

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Queer Character of Color, Canon Queer Relationship, Domestic, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Lazy Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Post-The Old Guard (Movie 2020), Romance, Shower Sex, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25270699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Post-film lying low being lazy and domestic."I still think of us as infinite," Nicky tells his nightstand.Joe brushes the words against the nape of his neck. "We are."But they aren't. Andy isn't. Delicate footsteps in the sand of their lives isn't how they operate.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 90
Kudos: 1273





	if we could see through walls

**Author's Note:**

> Just film canon here. My love for these two is officially never-ending. Title from Frank Ocean.
> 
> (Unrelated, but whoever wrangled my Cute Immortal Husbands tag to this pairing is my hero. <3 )

There's a Galatasaray match on the TV when they enter the hotel room, Nile sitting on the couch closest to it, leaning forward and squinting sceptically.

"Is the aimless walking around the field _part_ of the game?" she asks, gaze fixed on the screen.

"Pretty much," Joe responds, not missing a beat. Crossing the room in a beeline towards the farthest nightstand, he dumps both their duffels on the floor between the French windows and the bed, bending at the waist to set his book aside. Nicky lingers by the now-closed door.

Shaking her head, Nile mutters, "They're jogging, man," but she continues watching intently.

Technically, it's their room, Joe and Nicky's, but Andy's gone in search of food whose provenance is more certain than the usual street fare, thus leaving Nile alone and very obviously bored.

As a rule, travel preference has more to do with staying low and safe rather than speed of transport, but this time the swiftness with which they can exit the British Isles means, in itself, safety. Nicky doesn't so much hate planes as abhors airports, thus he's tempted to kick Nile out for some peace and quiet now they're finally free of recycled air and frustrated tourists and mobile phone cameras.

But he doesn't have to. Nile picks up the remote and turns the TV off. "All yours," she says, rising, and Joe smiles tiredly, probably just as exhausted after their trip as Nicky feels, and then Nile's shrugging her shoulders as she makes her way out onto the corridor.

Three stories below them, the lobby sprawls into a well-lit reception area. The lift ride up, barely felt, ended to reveal clean carpeting and the deathly quiet of off-season tourism. Andy and Nile's room is, strategically, two floors up. It's a good, comfortable hotel to shack up in for the long-run, or, in their case, seven days of late-spring sunshine and mediocre breakfast catering.

Low-lit motel rooms are fine and dandy during a mission; average middle-class accommodation works better during downtime. Joe and Nicky tend to come off as spouses in need of some rest from boring jobs which affords them off-season holidays in "exotic" locations. Nicky's looking forward to the Do Not Disturb sign working its subtle magic: the staff usually stops engaging them in idle chit-chat about two and a half days in to allow for "privacy".

It's barely what qualifies as afternoon, as in twelve o'clock has come and gone just a short while ago. He ambles over to open the doors onto their little balcony, Joe flopping face-first onto their bed behind him. He spots his shoes by the wall from the corner of his eye. Nicky can feel every bone in his body aching for a horizontal surface.

He turns and deadpans, "Where has the romance gone," not a question, and Joe rolls over to his side, elbowing his torso upright. His other arm crawls in front of him, palm downwards onto a spot meant for Nicky. Kicking his own shoes off wordlessly, Nicky takes it. His bones thank him.

Staring between the window hinges and the gently-shifting curtains tires his eyes, though they were probably tired from before, their long journey out with little sleep. Joe's arm snakes around to cover his waist, fingers splayed along his ribs, his palm warm at his solar plexus even through his shirt. His breath tickles the shorter hairs at the back of his head.

"I still think of us as infinite," Nicky tells his nightstand.

Joe brushes the words against the nape of his neck. "We are."

But they aren't. Andy isn't. Delicate footsteps in the sand of their lives isn't how they operate.

The tension along his back must give him away easily after almost a millennium. It prompts Joe to concede evenly, "We'll be careful."

His throat's dried up, suddenly, making it hard to speak. It passes, and, besides, he lacks the words anyway, doesn't need them with Joe. He must fall asleep from one breath and the next, for when he cracks an eye open later the sheets of sunlight lighting the room have turned to soft orange. A gentle breeze is still ruffling the gauzy curtains, and Joe's arms haven't left his body in sleep.

*

They wake properly at daybreak. Nicky's insides protest against mild dehydration and a squalid hunger he feels only when they're on the run rather than nestled into warm bedding. Mouthing at the side of his neck, Joe mutters, "Morning," arms tightening, the leg he has between both of Nicky's shifting upwards to prod interestedly at delicate places they've been too busy to explore as of late.

"Morning," he manages. He's parched. They slept in their travelling clothes. His jeans are constricting in uncomfortable places and his shirt is stuck to his back with night sweat. But his pillow smells like Joe and him. He hardly thinks about getting up but for Joe shifting at his back.

Both struggle with words in the morning, unless there's a crisis. "Shower," Joe mutters, rising to move away and off the bed completely. Standing upright under clean, warm water sounds stupendous. A true luxury.

Eventually, he rolls onto his back to lazily track Joe's movements as he folds his shirt over a chair and unzips his jeans. They're been running on adrenaline for a long time now. The hotel in Morocco seems like so long ago, although it couldn't have been. They have, however, died more than a couple of times since. London weighs down on all four of them.

He watches as Joe liberates a clean body towel from a linen cupboard, by now shamelessly nude. He idly, unconsciously, toes at his ankle and up his calf just below the underside of his knee as he unfolds the biggest one he finds. His feet shift on the hotel room carpeting, the line of his back straight, hair sticking out at the back above the nape of his neck. Nicky stands. It's downtime, which means he can have this. Uncomplicatedly.

Joe turns as Nicky takes his own shirt off. "I'll start warming the water," he says. Nicky watches him leave, watches muscles shift underneath skin. He thumbs the button on his jeans, his fingers grazing below to adjust his cock. He's been half-hard since they woke, probably been vaguely aroused the entire night. It never fails, his body aware they're alone and they have the time. Not much, either Nile or Andy or both will surely come looking for them soon enough, but a long shower sounds like perfection. He hurries with his clothes.

The bathroom door is cracked open, steam just now rising in the air. The shower is a transparent cubicle next to a toilet and sink next to a large tub. He drags the door open to step inside, and drags it closed to seal in the heat. Joe's arms bring them close together. Water's already dripping off Joe in tiny rivulets, and Nicky feels as if he could weep, it's been _too fucking long_ without more than a couple of minutes of this closeness he can hardly breathe for missing every second of his life when he doesn't have it.

They trade kisses, lingering on cheeks and jaws and brows. Somewhere along the way, Nicky's back meets the wall of the shower and Joe's knees meet its floor. Nicky drags a palm across his face before he bears to look down. His cock dribbles a bit of pre-come right at the tip, which Joe's palm gathers to stroke him a couple of times before he knees his way between Nicky's feet to mouth at the head. The water hides his harsh intake of breath but not the moan he lets out when Joe opens his mouth to take him in completely, a comfortable fit which drives Nicky up the wall from the heat and intimacy of it.

His hips drag back pathetically, ferociously slowly, as if dreading to ever leave Joe's mouth, soon halted by the shower wall, only to slam forward to the root, a relentless glide in Nicky feels in his toes, ending in Joe's lips sucking him tightly as his throat squeezes around his cockhead unrepentantly. Joe's the one who pulls back, but only halfway and never letting up on the sucking pressure, before diving all the way back in. Setting a steady rhythm, Joe works him over patiently, almost reverently, Nicky's fingers scrambling at the tiles, knees locking to remain upright.

Pounding hot water turns lukewarm. Nicky tries his best to stay still, to melt into the wall as Joe drags his tongue up the underside of his cock before he sucks on the head as if trying to coax the come right out of him then and there. Nicky knows he isn't because Joe likes this too much, wants it to last. Seven days is nothing, but they might as well start here.

It's always a lot, too much, barely enough to sate either of them until the next time. How it can still be like this after nine hundred years is beyond Nicky's comprehension. His nails sink into his palms and his shoulders push themselves flat to the tiles. He's for sure going to feel the strain in his hips tomorrow for trying not to fuck inside like an animal.

Finally, Joe takes him back all the way. Nicky pounds his right fist once against the wall, then spills so hard his calves spasm, nearly causing him to topple over. Joe lets him fill his mouth, a bit dribbling from the corners. Eventually, he allows him to slip out before spitting into the drain. Nicky's toes hurt from curling so hard. Joe rises to lick at his neck and whisper things Nicky can't understand over the water.

They do soap themselves and get clean. By then, the water's edging on cold.

The Do Not Disturb sign Nicky's so fond of isn't on their door yet, and someone is pounding on it just as they exit the bathroom. Nile's voice from the other side says, "Breakfast."

As Nicky goes looking for their toothbrushes in their duffels, Joe murmurs assent against the door. Nile must hear him because there's the sound of shuffling footsteps walking away from their door.

They hurry to get dressed, but slow down to stand side by side at the bathroom sink, brushing their teeth with cheap hotel toothpaste.

Their eyes catch on each other's in the mirror and hold, and Nicky's heart swells for this man all over again.

**Author's Note:**

> Domestic Immortal Husbands lying low is all I want to write from now on, ain't gonna lie. Kudos/comments greatly appreciated it, of course. <3
> 
> Tumblr: [rhubarbdreams](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


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